My Umbrella
by KaiahAurora
Summary: Mycroft Holmes loves his umbrella, this is a given fact, but how did he come by it? A completely fluff-based and purely silly fic featuring the Holmes family. Mostly flutt and funnies, I must warn you that there is some real drama later on...


My friend and I were talking about Mycroft's many ships - i.e. donuts, cake, and such - until we came upon the subject of his umbrella. We both agreed that it was one of our strongest pairings, and that it was the truest love we had ever seen. Of course, she had no idea that I would write a fanfiction about it, but what can you do?

* * *

The eight-year-old Mycroft stared at his birthday present in awe and practical reverence. Every other year he had been given toys and books the same as all the other children. But he was an adult now – responsible – and expected to act like it. His father had explained very carefully that since his mother would be busy taking care of a new baby, Mycroft would have to look after her and his younger brother while Mr. Holmes was away. Mycroft would be the master of the house, and he needed to make sure that everything was in order. He was expected to be an adult, now, and this gift was a symbol of the changing times.

So, Mycroft saw the importance of his umbrella. He had always been driven to school and his tedious meetings with so-called "playmates". But now he might have to walk on his own, and there was no way that he could afford to get sick due to bad weather, not with a baby around. He would have to be very careful. Mycroft's father had told him that he must bring the umbrella with him to school and back every day, so that if it started to rain he would be ready.

The umbrella was the most important thing he had ever been given. The thing was a sleek black, made from polyester, with a 24" frame. It was 35" from the tip to the handle, and its diameter was 48". It even had a Malacca handle.

Mycroft had absolutely no idea what a Malacca handle was, but it sounded important.

He obviously knew that the umbrella was a lustrous tool that could be used in many situations and was, more importantly, meant for adults. He could barely hold the thing upright, and even when he did it swayed unpleasantly from side to side. It was a challenge that he could not refuse.

XXX

Mycroft was mastering the art of balancing his umbrella in one hand when the maid came rushing into his room. He immediately deduced that something had happened, and guessed that his mother had gone into labour before the young woman said so. Mycroft took a deep breath and closed his umbrella, folding his hands neatly over the Malacca handle and assuming his mature role as an adult. The thing really was much too tall for him.

Six and a half hours later, Mycroft sat beside the butler on the hard hospital chairs. The boy was stubbornly refusing to kick his feet or show any other signs of emotion. He was an adult, now, after all. However, it was obvious by how he clutched the black umbrella and rested his chin on the Malacca handle that he was nervous. Maybe he wasn't so grown up after all.

XXX

Mycroft sat pouting at his desk, his chin resting on his hands and tears drying on his cheeks. All he had wanted to do was show his parents a new trick he had mastered with the umbrella. A triple twirl, carefully kept balanced and perfectly centered. How had he known that it would strike an expensive pot and wake his four-month-old brother?

It wasn't fair. He had done exactly what his father had asked him: he took it with him every day to school, brought it out with him at lunch break, even made a special holder for it on his backpack. Mycroft was a responsible adult, just as his father had wanted. So why had he taken Mycroft's comforter and entertainer and protector away?

XXX

The ten-year-old Mycroft stared icily at his teacher. She had said to write about something important to them. He had followed the assignment's parameters to the letter, stuck to the maximum word limit and even triple-checked his spelling (though he had no need. He was well beyond any of the other students in his grade). So what if his classmates had all chosen to write about their families or dull, unimportant pets? He had been told to write about he loved, and he had done so. Mycroft saw no reason why an umbrella could not be considered a friend.

XXX

Mycroft went storming out of the house in a fury. Why? Why did his parents have to have another child? And why did that child have to turn out to be a snobby, irritating little brat? Who did mother and father have to be so doting upon him, while utterly ignoring all that Mycroft accomplished?

His parents were so excited that their second son had shown the same level of genius as their first son, with twice the energy. Mycroft seethed as he stalked down the pavement. He hated that child. He had been so irked that he had nearly forgotten to snatch his umbrella from its holder before running out of the door.

Well, running might be a slight exaggeration. Walking forcefully is a better description.

Whichever the case, it took Mycroft a block-and-a-half to notice that it was pouring with rain. He immediately stopped, opening his umbrella with practiced ease. He might as well use the ridiculous thing if he was going to be dragging it around with him everywhere.

Mycroft continued his walk with a slower pace, his mind settling with the sound of rain drumming on the fabric above his head. He remembered what his father told him on his eighth birthday, the day he got this wonderful umbrella.

"Mycroft, son, you know that things will be different when your mother has the baby. Everyone will be very busy looking after him, and we might not be able to be with you as much as we were. I need you to be a good boy, and help your mother whenever she asks. I'll be counting on you to look after thing while I'm away, you know that. You will be the man of the house."

The twelve-year-old slowed down to a complete stop. He realized just how childishly sensitive and immature he had been, resenting his younger brother for simply being a toddler. He remembered that little Sherlock would be starting school soon, and that he had been given the privilege of taking his younger brother to his first day of school.

A smile entered unbidden on his face when Mycroft remembered just how excited little Sherlie had been when he had explained the concept of "school" for the first time. And the second. And the third.

Now completely ridden of his foul mood, Mycroft turned on his heel and started his way back home. He looked up in surprise as he noticed that the rain had stopped, and the sun was beginning to shine through the dreary London sky. Mycroft closed his umbrella and twirled it expertly with one hand, thinking about all the tricks he would teach Sherlock about the arts of life, and how to handle umbrellas.

XXX

His gasp rang sharply in his ears. Their mother's hand flew to her mouth. Sherlock stared at the thing in shock and horror. Their father simply regarded the three of them as if they had all grown a second head, completely incomprehensive of his family's dramatic reaction.

The umbrella lay broken on the ground.

"My, I'm so sorry," Sherlock babbled, tears forming in his eyes. "I'm sorry."

The six-year-old, for all his wild experiments and eccentric ways, had long since learned that Mycroft's umbrella was sacred property. It was off limits, holy, and all together untouchable. He had genuinely forgotten that he had used it as part of the outline for his pirate ship. He hadn't meant to step on it.

Mycroft's jaw was clenched so tightly that veins popped out of his neck and pulsed with every heartbeat. Silently and slowly, his eyes still fixed on the broken instrument, Mycroft nudged Sherlock out of the way and bent to pick up his old companion. The joints were broken, the ribs bent out of shape. The Malacca handle snapped in his hands.

"Don't worry," his mother whispered. "We'll see if we can get it fixed, no matter what the cost."

With that, his father threw up his hands and walked out of the room, muttering about living with a family of nutters. Their mother left to look up umbrella repair shops. Sherlock knelt beside his brother and quietly offered up his savings account to pay for the damage. Mycroft, despite of everything, smiled.

XXX

Mycroft sat at his desk, calmly attacking his advanced homework while trying to work out his feelings. He knew that he shouldn't have reacted. He knew that his father was completely reasonable. Heck, he even knew that carrying around an umbrella like a security blanked was utterly ridiculous. However, after over seven years of loyalty and service, Mycroft had to say that he loved the darn thing.

His father didn't see it that way, of course. So, when Mycroft had run home twenty minutes after the start of class because he somehow forgot his umbrella, Mr. Holmes was not impressed. That evening after school he took the matter up.

"For God's sake, you're fifteen years old, Mycroft," he had yelled angrily. "So start acting like it! I can't for the life of me understand why this ratty old thing is so important to you!"

"It isn't ratty and it's my friend! I've taken care of it for nearly half my life and I'm not about to stop now!" was what Mycroft wanted to say. Instead, he managed a quiet "It's a fine tool, sir, and I thought it might rain today."

"I think you've grown far too attached to this thing," Mr. Holmes had said, making a lunge for the umbrella.

His mother had intervened before violence ensued, calmly suggesting that Mycroft go to his room and continue his studies. So, now Mycroft was studying. He didn't know why he loved that umbrella so much, he really didn't. But, to be honest, he didn't care. It was his and would remain so until the day he died, no exceptions. It was his one and only friend.

A knock on the door drew Mycroft from his thoughts. He frowned, wondering which family or staff member he would be forced to interact with. However, the teenager smiled when the hesitant and almost nervous voice drifted through the door. "Mycroft, son, are you there? I'd like to apologize. I don't know what came over me."

XXX

For Sherlock's first birthday, Mycroft had given him a children's book, written for ages five and up. For his fourth birthday, Mycroft had presented him with his first pirate's hat and plush parrot. For his seventh birthday, Mycroft had gone to great pains to buy his brother a nineteenth century pocket watch. And so, it only seemed fitting that for his eighth birthday, Mycroft honour Sherlock with the most fitting gift he could think of: a first-class, brand new umbrella.

The thing was torn apart and dissected within the week.

XXX

Mycroft stood proud at his secondary school graduation. At sixteen years old, he was already taking multiple university courses and had picked out a career, but still those mandatory classes such as science and physical education had kept him from finishing year twelve as quickly as he would have liked.

He spotted Sherlock sitting in the audience, gazing up at him with shining eyes. Since the death of their father, Mycroft had taken over the main role of Sherlock's upbringing, and had truly become an adult before his time. So, it seemed more than appropriate that the eight-year-old sit in at his brother, mentor, and guardian's graduation ceremony, and bring with him the one object that Mycroft Holmes held dear: his trusty umbrella.

XXX

It was his graduation from university. He had been offered a minor position in the British government that he was more than happy to accept. One part of his life was over, and other would soon begin. However, Mycroft Holmes was not one to forget what was important. After well over one and a half decades, the sleek black umbrella he had received on his eighth birthday was sitting on his chair, still by his side as always.

Mycroft loved his umbrella, there was no doubt in anyone's mind as to that fact. So, he was not so much insulted as touched when, after the ceremony, the teenage Sherlock presented his brother with a present. At first glance, it seemed like an ordinary dark blue patterned neck tie. Only after second glance did he see the design.

"I thought it would fit," Sherlock said with a smirk. "Seeing as it depicts your one true love."

Mycroft accepted the gift cooly and graciously, and only when he returned to his house did he eagerly put it on. The small white umbrellas made him smile as he looked at them in the mirror. He would never say so to Sherlock, nor any other living soul, but Mycroft had just found another thing that he would have with him and cherish every single day.

* * *

Wow, was I the only one who got misty-eyed when the umbrella was broken? That stuff is heart-breaking!... ... I fear for what remains of my sanity. Anyway, let me know if you liked it in the comments, and if you want more of this stuff all you have to do is ask! Cheers!


End file.
